


Avoiding, Catching, Letting Go

by kutubiyya



Series: Snapshots [7]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, On-going misunderstandings, Pining, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jimmy is definitely totally over it, honest, and Swanny continues to meddle. Obviously.</p><p>Set in the summer of 2013, after the first Ashes Test at Trent Bridge. All feedback welcomed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avoiding, Catching, Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fic about the fall-out from events in Nagpur (see the previous episode in the series, 'Five Rooms...'), but somehow it turned into a tribute to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auHuXhrNbZQ) magnificently slashy press conference instead (see also my gifs [here](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/97167416042/this-evening-i-have-mostly-been-learning-how-to)). So it goes :)

Far, far too early on the morning after they’ve beaten the Aussies in the first Test at Trent Bridge – and, more particularly, the morning after they’ve all been out celebrating beating the Aussies in the first Test at Trent Bridge – Jimmy’s pulled out of very confused dream (in which he may or may not have been a bloke version of Catwoman... it's complicated) by his phone growling at him from the cabinet next to his hotel bed.

It’s a text from Swanny.

_you and cooky. is it back on?_

Jimmy blinks tiredly at the screen. He has absolutely no idea what Swanny’s talking about. He comes close – so close! – to just ignoring the message and going back to sleep. But curiosity gets the better of him, and he sends back:

_?_

(Curiosity, yes; effort, no.)

The reply comes swiftly:

_the great romance!_

Jimmy’s heart sinks. He doesn’t need this again. He’s stopped thinking about it all. He has.

He took Ali’s words, back in India, to heart; he’s respected his wishes, been nothing but professional ever since. Friendly, still, but keeping a careful distance.

Sleep-slowed fingers stumble across the touch screen.

_back on suggests that something ~~used to be happening~~ has happened_

(He’s not sure how the tenses in that should work. He can’t do complicated sentences on – he checks the clock – four hours’ sleep. He deletes the whole thing and goes for something simpler.)

_No romance. Nothing happened. So nothing to be back._

(Not quite nothing. That glorious, drunk couple of minutes in Nagpur. He shuts that line of thought down, quickly.)

The phone buzzes again.

_well am watching a vid of last night’s press conference and the sexual tension is astonishing._

Jimmy’s mostly bemused, but with an undercurrent of alarm. (What did he do wrong in the press conference? He’s sure he didn’t do anything wrong in the press conference. He was smiling more than usual, true, but who wouldn’t after taking ten wickets in a match?)

He leaves all of this out of his reply:

_Why on earth are you watching the pc?_

_don’t change the subject!! have you seen it? you have to see it._

_Don’t need to. Was there_

The next time the phone vibrates, Swanny’s calling instead. Jimmy groans, and argues with himself for a while before stabbing the screen with his thumb to answer it.

“What.”

Swanny completely ignores the subtle hint that is Jimmy’s tone. “Look at youtube.”

“Do you know what time—”

“I _promise_ you, you want to see this. He can’t take his eyes off you!”

Jimmy rues the day he ever explained any of this to Swanny; but he’s on the hook, now, and more fool him.

“All _right_ , I give in. Hang on.”

He hauls himself out of bed, grabs his laptop, wakes it up from stand-by. He sits back down on the bed with the computer in one hand and a glass of water in the other, and spends a few moments gathering himself before he puts the now-empty glass down, and picks up the phone again.

“Okay,” he says. “How do I find it?”

(A better question would be, of course, _Why am I even doing this?_ )

Swanny starts explaining, then breaks off to exclaim, so loudly Jimmy has to hold the phone away from his ear, “He just stared at your lips for a solid ten seconds!” He stops, then continues in a more normal voice, “Okay, I might be exaggerating slightly, but—”

“Swanny, focus.”

“I am!”

He does eventually give some instructions. Jimmy follows them, and the video starts. He mutes it quickly; he’s got no desire to hear himself witter on all over again.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. What exactly am I looking for?”

“Skip to about one and a half minutes in, you’ll see what I mean.”

He does. He waits. He’s about to congratulate Swanny on a good prank – he really fell for it (secret meaning: he really got his hopes up) – when video-Ali turns a sidelong gaze on video-him in what almost seems like slow motion, complete with comically heavy-lidded eyelash-fluttering.

“Is that all?” Jimmy snorts. “I suppose if you wanted to read something into it, yeah. But he made it pretty clear last year that he’s—”

“Keep going. Wait till he gets all hot under the collar and starts stroking his mouth.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes, even though he knows Swanny can’t see. “Be fair, you’ve done enough press conferences in your life to know what it’s like. You’re so busy trying not to look like a rabbit in headlights that you end up pulling some…” (Oh.) “…weird…” ( _Oh._ ) “…faces.”

Jimmy swallows. It turns out Swanny’s description isn’t far off the mark, actually.

He’s a lot more awake, all of a sudden.

“See what I mean?” Swanny laughs down the phone at him. “I’m at 7:50, and it’s all got very steamy indeed—”

“Yeah, _thanks_ ,,” Jimmy interrupts him, hastily. “I don’t need a commentary.” He stops the video. “And I’m not sure what this proves.”

“What it _proves_? Look at him! He might as well be holding up a sign saying _I want to snog Jimmy Anderson_! The man’s got it bad.”

Jimmy pushes his laptop away. He’s been doing a good job over the past few months of not thinking about that night, but now it’s all coming back. The kiss, and what followed.

 _Bloody hell, Swanny_ , he thinks, _I was over this_.

“Yeah, well, that’s not what he said in India.”

“Pft. He was just embarrassed, wasn’t he? It was all new and confusing.”

 _It was a mistake_ , Ali said, the next day. _I was drunk and I led you on_. Not much wiggle room there. _I’m not gay_. He said that, too. And aside from this video, Ali’s given him no reason to think anything’s changed since. And even the video might just be a trick of, like, camera angles or something.

Swanny’s still talking; Jimmy cuts over him, more loudly than he means to.

“He was pretty emphatic. _Trust_ me.”

The other man goes quiet. Jimmy suspects he’s let a bit too much hurt creep into his voice. He forces a lighter tone; would rather keep his feelings over this private.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm for my lovelife, but you’re barking up the wrong tree this time. We dealt with all this in Nagpur. Nothing to see here.” His last word is swallowed by a yawn. “Look, I’d really like some more sleep before we have to check out. I’ll speak to you later. Okay?”

“…Okay.” Swanny sounds subdued. ( _Well, good_ , Jimmy thinks; perhaps now he’ll let it lie.)

Jimmy hangs up. And for at least two or three minutes he does, in fact, resist the temptation to watch any more of the video. He can’t sleep, though: his body’s alert, now, even if his mind still isn’t.

Moth to flame, he goes back to the start, watches it all the way through. Watches a few key bits again. Wonders how Ali manages to make even something as dull as listening to routine press questions look faintly pornographic. Gets up and goes for a cold shower.

(Okay, a cool shower. Even self-flagellation has its limits.)

\--

Five hours later, Jimmy’s feeling, if anything, even more fuzzy-headed. He yawns his way through the line to check out, bids a bleary-eyed (temporary) farewell to his teammates, and hauls his bags out to the car park in a haze. It’s all too easy for Swanny to catch up with him, although to Jimmy’s huge relief he says nothing more about the video.

“Pub lunch before we go our separate ways?”

Jimmy nods. “Sure, yeah.”

“Great,” says Swanny. He gets out his phone, pulls up a map. “Apparently this one’s good.” He’s showing Jimmy the place when Ali’s voice chimes in from behind them.

“Hi, guys. You ready?”

(Jimmy swallows a few swear words. He should have known it was a trap.)

He elbows Swanny as they turn, together, to greet their captain. Ali’s in an olive-green polo shirt and worn, baggy blue jeans, but even the clashing colours and the (characteristically) unflattering lines of the clothes really can’t make the man look less good. He’s still all tanned arms, richly unruly hair, expressive mouth. His dark eyes sparkle as he smiles at them.

(Jimmy’s remembering the video all over again. He’s remembering kissing him. How can he not.)

 _How do I want to kill thee, Swanny_ , he thinks; _let me count the ways_ …

“Yep, ready,” says Swanny, in a tone so blithely unconcerned it’s almost like he read Jimmy’s mind. (And is mocking him. Obviously.) “Race you there?”

Ali unleashes one of those dazzling grins, and dashes for his car. Jimmy glares at Swanny, who beams back at him, and runs for his own. Jimmy watches them both go. On general, grumpy principle, he refuses to rush.

This does mean, though, that by the time he gets to the pub, Swanny has already had chance to meddle. Jimmy wanders through a maze-like host of small interconnected rooms, all dark-stained wood panelling and tiny leaded windows, to find Swanny and Ali sitting opposite each other at a secluded four-person table. Swanny’s piled various bags and coats on the chair next to him, leaving the only free seat one next to Ali, on a shared sofa-bench thing.

Since he’s coming into the room from behind Ali’s back, Jimmy takes the opportunity to glare at Swanny (again) and mouth, _So predictable_.

Swanny just beams (again), and Jimmy knows there’s no stopping him when he’s in this sort of mood.

“Who won the race?” he says instead, as he slings his jacket next to Swanny, and lowers himself into the space Ali makes for him. The bench is narrower than it looks; there’s less of a gap between him and Ali than he might like.

“Me,” says Ali, radiating delight.

Swanny scoffs. “Only because you cheated.”

“What? I did _not_ cheat!”

“You did too!” Swanny appeals to Jimmy. “He pushed me over and then ran past me, cackling.”

“For me to have pushed you over,” says Ali, “you’d have needed to be within ten feet of me. At any point during the race.”

Jimmy laughs, softly. Swanny’s response is cut short when a waitress brings his and Ali’s drinks, and starts taking their food order. Jimmy sees the young woman blush as Ali speaks to her, feels his own face growing warm in sympathy, and busies himself in scanning the menu.

“I won fair and square,” says Ali, once she’s gone.

“Who do _you_ believe?” Swanny says to Jimmy.

“Well, Cooky, obviously.”

Swanny sticks out his tongue. “Captain’s pet.” He adds (much too pointedly), “He’s not as innocent as he looks, you know.”

Jimmy’s torn between rolling his eyes at Graeme and sneaking a look at Ali. He goes for the latter, only to find the other man’s also glancing at him.

He looks quickly back at Swanny, who’s using his pint of Coke to hide a grin.

The argument’s cut short by the ringing of Ali’s phone. Jimmy practically leaps up to let him out, keen to avoid any awkward Ali-shuffling-past-him situation. As soon as he’s disappeared, Jimmy sits back down and aims a kick at Swanny.

“Ow.” Swanny makes a performance out of rubbing his shin. “What was that for?”

“You know what.”

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I’m not avoiding him. I’m just being careful.”

“Well, either way it’s weird and awkward, and I want it to stop being weird and awkward. I like hanging out with both of you.”

Jimmy’s drink arrives. (Black coffee, obviously.) Both of them keep quiet until the waitress is out of earshot.

“It’s fine,” Jimmy says at last. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Can’t you just talk to him?”

“We already talked, remember?”

“I mean properly talk.” Swanny sounds exasperated. “Not a hungover mumbling match the day after.”

Jimmy shrugs. “What else is there to say?”

“Well, there’s something, clearly, or he wouldn’t have been looking at you like that last night.”

Jimmy sighs. “Will you get over that fucking press conference?”

“Did you watch the rest of it?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Busybody.”

“You say busybody, I say matchmaker.”

There’s no time to respond to that, because Ali’s back and the game of musical chairs resumes, each of them giving the other an exaggeratedly wide berth.

Swanny’s smirking behind his drink, again, and okay, so Jimmy could avoid this by just sliding across and letting Ali take his place on the end. But he doesn’t like being hemmed in.

(Especially not in situations like this, with his head full of Ali and the real thing right next to him and god knows what Swanny’ll say next.)

Jimmy concentrates on slurping down his caffeine hit while Ali and Swanny excitably compare notes on their favourite bits of the Test just done. Swanny’s in the middle of not very subtly encouraging Ali to sing Jimmy’s praises again – not that he needs all that much encouragement, subtle or otherwise – when Jimmy’s saved further embarrassment by the tinkling of Swanny’s phone.

Or so he thinks, at first.

Swanny reads the text, and gives an outraged gasp.

Jimmy looks up from his coffee cup (sadly, empty). “What’s wrong?”

“My wife watched _Face/Off_ without me last night. And she didn’t even like it!” Swanny reads his reply aloud as he types it. “I… want… a… divorce.”

“What’s _Face/Off_?” says Ali.

“You’ve never seen it? It’s brilliant.”

“Don’t listen to a word of it,” says Jimmy. “It’s rubbish.”

“Rubbish, but brilliant,” says Swanny. “Nic Cage and John Travolta are a cop and a robber who _literally_ steal each other’s faces and then basically spend the rest of the film messing up each other’s lives and competing over who can chew the scenery with the greatest gusto.”

“They steal each other’s _faces_?” Ali sounds bewildered, as well he might.

“Yeah, some experimental procedure or something. Doesn’t matter how. Makes me wonder, though.” Swanny pauses, drains his glass. “If you could borrow someone’s body for a day, who would it be?”

Jimmy ponders this. “Broady,” he says. “I’d shave off his eyebrows and get him a massive tattoo that said IN YOUR FACE, AUSTRALIA.” He pretends not to bask in Ali’s laughter as he flags down a passing member of staff and orders more coffee.

“Think I might go for Belly,” says Swanny. “I’d look utterly beautiful with the bat, _and_ I could hide in really small spaces.”

Jimmy frowns. “I don’t think it works like that. You’d still bat like yourself, just in his body, surely?” Swanny aims a half-hearted swipe at him.

“In that case,” says Ali, “I know the swap I’d like to see. Joe and Jimmy.” Over Jimmy’s protests, he says, “Could you imagine? A relentlessly upbeat Jimmy bouncing around and smiling at everyone. And Rooty’s cherub face tuned to permanent scowl.”

Swanny’s grinning. “Oh god, I love it. And it’d _really_ mess with David Warner.”

Jimmy looks at them both through narrowed eyes. “I feel like I’m being mocked here.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Jimmy’s second coffee arrives.

“Well, okay, who would you rather swap with?” says Ali. “How about one of the Aussies?”

“I’ve already chosen—” Jimmy begins, but Swanny dives in first.

“I know. Michael Clarke!”

Jimmy goes cold. “No,” he says, flatly. “Just… no.”

“You could kiss and make up with Shane Watson, and—” Swanny finally seems to notice that Jimmy’s trying to bore holes in his head with his eyes, and says, “What’s the deal with you and Pup, anyway?”

Jimmy shifts in his seat. (It’s all past. Long past.) “Nothing.”

“But you hit him round the head with a pad that one time. Got some history, you two?”

Ali, Jimmy realises, is watching him with interest.

(No way is he going there with Ali listening in. Current crushes don’t need to hear about embarrassing exes. Especially under the circumstances. And it really was a very long time ago.)

(Wait. No. Ali isn’t a current crush because he’s over him.)

( _Yeah, right_.)

Jimmy decides a tactical retreat is in order, since he can’t even get the story straight in his own head.

He makes his sigh an exaggerated one, like he’s bored with the whole thing. “He’s a dick, end of story. And I’m off to the loo.”

He takes his time in the bathroom, running some water in the sink to splash over his face and avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. For a while, he simply leans, head down, watching water drip from his face into the sink.

Swanny’s right, Jimmy knows he is. (Not about Michael Clarke.) He takes a deep breath, makes a decision.

The decision gets pre-empted.

Leaving the bathroom, he sweeps round a corner and finds himself striding right into Ali. There follows a confusion of trying not to fall and trying not to touch; of hands avoiding, catching, letting go; hands so determined not to linger anywhere, not to brush or stroke or caress, that they can’t really do what they’re trying (supposed?) to do: hold themselves and each other up.

There are mumbled apologies, and hasty, awkward moves to leave the scene.

Then, steady at last, Jimmy stops, and sighs. He doesn’t reach out, but his voice does, to Ali’s retreating back.

“Al— Cooky,” he says.

Ali stops, too, stock still. He doesn’t turn round.

“This is…” Jimmy swallows. “It’s daft. We can’t go on dancing round each other like this.”

When Ali doesn’t say anything, Jimmy pushes on.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…” He searches for the right words. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I hate that I have.” He folds his arms, presses them hard against his chest. “You don’t need to worry. I won’t try it again—”

“Don’t.”

Ali turns, at last. There’s so much in his expression.

“Don’t,” he says again. “It’s okay. That night…” He closes his eyes, briefly; gives a faint smile. “With all the hiding and hostage-taking and— It was fun. I… enjoyed it. I just. I can’t. Given how things are. You know.”

Jimmy feels a little flare of he’s not sure what. Sadness, relief, and something else; the original message is confirmed, but it’s softened. Just the tiniest bit: _Given how things are_.

(And the flirting, maybe, wasn’t all in his head, after all. _I enjoyed it_. He files that away, to think about later.)

He says none of this aloud. “I understand. Friends?”

Ali’s smile widens. “Always.” He nods back in the direction of their table. “Food’s arrived. I’m just going to wash my hands.”

Jimmy watches him go. He isn’t really over it; not at all. But it helps: to be able to look Ali in the eye again, and smile at him.

**Author's Note:**

> The references to a Jimmy/Michael Clarke backstory were inspired by a fic snippet on cricketslash, specifically mod1's [solo voyaging of said ship](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/tagged/clanderson). :D It's possible this may play a larger part in future instalment(s).


End file.
